by Sylvie Kurtz
“Of course you are. Let me see anyway.” She smiled at him, that sweet saccharine smile she knew set his teeth on edge. “Or is our hero nothing but a chicken in disguise?”
He glared at her, but she was past believing he was as mean as he pretended. The way he was around Hannah betrayed his soft marshmallow center. “You might as well give in. I’m not leaving until you’re slathered in antibiotic cream and bandaged.” Just so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea and take her interest personally, she added, “You won’t do me any good laid up in bed with a fever from an infection.”
He dropped the bag of peas onto the table and removed his jacket. She wet the bandana stuck to his skin in order to remove it without breaking open the wound once again. “You need stitches.”
“The cream’ll be fine.” His head swiveled, looking the crowd over.
She concentrated on cleaning the wound with liquid soap and water from the large bottle she’d brought. “I hope you’re at least up-to-date on your tetanus booster.”
“Required for the job.”
“Sebastian has always had a good head on his shoulders.” She tsked and riffled through her tote for the Swiss Army knife she kept there. With the tweezers, she removed the bits of dirt and grass stuck in the cut. “I’m not sure the antibiotic cream is enough to take care of this. You should go to a hospital.”
“Can’t.”
“Or won’t?” She returned the knife to her tote and armed herself with the tube of antibiotic cream. After a heartbeat of hesitation, she gently spread some ointment over the cut.
“I can’t take the chance the hospital would report the knife wound to the police. I can’t risk having to blow my cover.”
What could she say? She wanted to see him get proper attention for his wound, but she also understood his need to keep driving toward his goal. Anna Pavlova had taught her that lesson long ago, and it was the one thing that had kept her going after her parents’ murder.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said as she wrapped gauze around the wound.
“Obviously not about your health.”
“About yours.”
“Mine?” Her gaze met his, then flickered away. There was too much energy there, and she wasn’t about to let herself get cut on its diamond sharpness. “I wasn’t the one who had to go out there and prove I had balls to some no-good scum of the earth.”
“I had no choice, Rory. Not if I want in deeper.”
“Yeah, I know. I just wish…” She shrugged.
“What?”
“Nothing.” What she was feeling, she told herself, was inappropriate. His fault, really. Because he’d scared her with his show of machismo. She didn’t need to lose any more people than she already had. Even if technically he wasn’t on the people-I-care-for list.
“I was thinking you shouldn’t go to the party tomorrow.”
She cut strips of tape. “Why?”
“Because.”
“I see.” Grown-ups always used that excuse on children they thought were too stupid to understand. At least that told her where she stood with him.
He shifted to look up at her and banged his knee against hers. He stopped her busy fingers with his hand and forced her to look at him. Her pulse jumped. “Because I don’t know who’s going to be there. Because I don’t know what’s going to go down. Because I don’t want you getting hurt.”
So he cared? So what? It was just another excuse to manipulate her into doing what he wanted. Hadn’t her parents used the very same arsenal? Because. Because we know what’s best. Because we love you. As if that simple fact could repair the breach of trust. Narrowing her gaze, she pressed a strip of tape against the gauze. “The people Felicia usually hung around with will be there.”
“Most likely.”
“Then I need to be there.”
“I may not be able to protect you.”
She pressed the last strip of tape into place. “I do have seven years of martial arts under my belt.”
“Martial arts are fine and dandy in the dojo, but trust me, these guys don’t fight by the rules.”
“I’m not too proud to hide behind a table,” she said as she examined her handiwork.
“What if you’re cornered by a three-hundred-pound gorilla who wants to get into your pants and I’m on the other side of the room?”
She turned to the supplies on the table and frantically rolled gauze and stuffed it back into the box. “Then, as distasteful as it is, I guess you’ll have to hang around closer.”
He banged his fist against the table. “You’re not being reasonable.”
“And you’re being much too arrogant. I can take care of myself.” She capped the tube of antibiotic cream and turned back to face him. “Take off your shirt.”
He frowned at her. “What for?”
Because I can make you do it, she thought, unsure where this sudden sense of power had come from. “Aren’t we a grumbly bear? I need you to take your shirt off so I can see if you were cut anywhere else. Don’t worry, I’ll only take a quick peek if you’re so shy.”
“Man, you are full of it tonight.” He pulled the T-shirt over his head. The harsh light from the spotlight in the corner accentuated the clean lines of his body.
Perhaps this was a mistake. She’d never fallen for hard muscles before. But then she’d never seen such a finely chiseled torso in the flesh, either. Lean and hard with defined biceps and pecs. Classic six-pack. Smooth olive skin. He reminded her of Michelangelo and Bernini sculptures she’d seen in a book on Italian art not too long ago.
“Yeah, well it’s been a strange day.” She ripped her gaze from the marble perfection of his chest. “Turn around.”
He rose from the chair and pivoted slowly. “Something happen?”
She shrugged, getting in an eyeful before he caught her staring. “No, not really.”
“Hannah okay?”
“Hannah’s fine.” She spied a smear of blood on his shoulder. “Stop.”
Standing on tiptoes, she palpated the skin around the blood. Warm. Had infection set in already? “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
With a clean, water-soaked napkin, she dabbed at the blood to reveal a zigzag scratch. “Sit.”
“So what happened?” He sat sideways on the chair, allowing her access to his back. She wanted to run her hands down those smooth hard planes. What is wrong with you? This forced intimacy was skewing everything. Shaking her head, she turned toward the table and momentarily forgot why.
“I stopped at the market to get supplies for your cut and this guy kept staring at me.”
“One of the Sons?” He craned his neck to look at her over his shoulder. His hair brushed her arm. Soft. Her forearm wanted to linger there.
“No, that’s just it. He says he’s a vet. Simon Bales.”
He nodded. “Big animals. I’ve seen his truck around. I suppose you demanded an explanation.”
“Of course. It’s rude to stare at people the way he was.” Forcing herself to concentrate on her task, she cleaned the cut and dabbed antibiotic cream on it.
“And?”
“And nothing. He said my hair reminded him of a filly he’d treated earlier in the day.”
“There you go.” Ace raised his arms, bumping her palm against the point of his shoulder. Solid. Her fingers tingled against his skin. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a guy look you up and down before.”
Remembering Ace’s ability to do just that and make her feel naked, she snapped her hand away from his shoulder and tried to flush down the fire from her cheeks. “You’re right. I’m seeing bad guys around every corner.”
“Another reason you shouldn’t go to the party. I’ll ask about Felicia.”
“Won’t that put you in danger?”
“Not if I do it right.”
She sucked in a breath. “Something happened tonight.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed, “and you saw it first-hand.”
“No, something else.”
“Maybe you should ask yourself why.”
Fighting the cold rush of a shiver, she reached for the bottle of water and drank what was left. “Because I’m Felicia’s sister.”
He swiveled around, somehow trapping her between his knees. His features were hard, his expression grim. His lips barely moved and his voice was barely above a whisper. “And if he made Felicia disappear, who says that’s not what he intends toward you?”
“Now who’s being paranoid?” She tried to back away, but he held her in place with his hands clasped behind her knees. Strong. Her fingers tightened around the bottle of water. “Wouldn’t it look just a little bit odd for both of us to disappear?”
“He could say you went back home. Who’d know the difference?”
“Sebastian would.” Her throat was going dry. Her palms were growing sweaty. Her breath was going AWOL again. “You would.”
“But Mike doesn’t know that.” He released her so suddenly, her knees almost buckled, and she had to take a quick step back to catch herself.
He reached for his stained T-shirt. “Are you done?”
“Quite,” she croaked. Definitely time to leave. For someone who hated speed, it suddenly felt as if she were flying down a hill in a car with no brakes.
He held up the bag of thawed peas. “What should I do with these?”
“I suggest you steam them. They go well with steak and a potato.” She gathered the bag of first aid supplies, the empty water bottle and her tote. “If, in the morning, the cut is red or swollen or has pus, or if you’re running a fever, let me know.” She added a coy smile. “I met a nice vet tonight. I’m sure I could talk him into giving you a shot of something. Given your current distaste of hospitals and all.”
With a hand to her elbow, he stopped her escape. “Rory. Stay home tomorrow.”
Looking up into his deep, dark eyes, she swallowed hard. The bottom of the hill was slamming closer and closer to her runaway car and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it. She never made promises she wasn’t one hundred percent sure she’d keep. The only promise she’d ever broken was the one she’d made her parents.
Take care of Felicia.
I promise. Cross my heart.
She’d give anything to run back to her apartment in D.C. and bury her head in books. She didn’t want to deal with Ace and Mike and everything she’d done wrong for the past seven years. “Trust me, if I could, I would.”
“WHAT CAN I GET YA?” the waitress asked as she poured coffee into Ace’s cup. The bags beneath her eyes were the same faded purple as the droopy cardigan she wore over her white uniform dress. Ace had arranged to meet Falconer at an out-of-the-way greasy spoon south of Summersfield. They sat in the back booth. Falconer had arrived first and was already enjoying a piece of cherry pie.
“What kind of pie do you have?” Ace wasn’t sure where his sudden appetite for sweets was coming from.
“All I’ve got left is cherry and apple.”
“I’ll take a slice of the apple.”
Falconer brought him up to speed on the developments of the case. The slice of pie arrived and he dug into it with gusto. The apples were cooked just right—not too soggy, not too crunchy—and there was just the right amount of cinnamon. He stopped mid chew as if he’d bitten into a bullet. Damned if the cinnamon didn’t remind him of Rory. He started to push the plate away, then changed his mind. She wasn’t going to ruin this for him the way she was ruining everything else.
“Then sometime next week, a flying saucer is due to land on Lake Winnipesaukee,” Falconer said.
Something about the mocking tone brought Ace back to earth. “What?”
Falconer’s face was cool and composed and impossible to read. “You’re a hundred miles away.”
Nope, only about twenty. This time, Ace did push the plate away and tried to shut images of Rory and her cinnamon-scented hair out of his mind. “I heard some talk tonight. Some guy was saying how he knew two guys, two brothers, who killed a girl over something to do with drugs.”
“You’re thinking it’s Felicia.”
Ace shrugged. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Got a name on him?”
“Richard Millhauser. Goes by Tricky Ricky. He’s been busted for possession before.”
Falconer made a note. “Okay, I’ll arrange to have him picked up.”
“He keeps his jar of meth in his boots.”
“Even better. If we catch him carrying, it gives us leverage. He might sing in exchange for having the charges against him lessened.”
Ace inched the plate with the pie closer with his fork and fluffed the layers of crust with the tines. “Another thing. Rory—it’s just not going to work.”
Falconer leaned back in his seat. His frown deepened the V between his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”
As Ace stuffed the last bite of pie in his mouth, the cinnamon hit him again. He could smell her hair, feel the touch of her fingers on his arm, and hear the laughter in her voice when she teased him. “The problem is that having to look out for her is dividing my attention. I can’t watch her back and look out for Taz at the same time.”
“She’s a stubborn woman.”
“You’re telling me,” Ace scoffed.
“There’s no sending her home till she’s ready to go. If you can’t look after her, then I’ll have to send someone else in. And that’s going to have some people asking questions.”
Ace waved an arm. “Hey, we had a falling out. Happens all the time. She refuses to play the proper biker chick. No one would be surprised.”
“Except that you fit in and someone else won’t. Kingsley’s Boy Scout looks are going to have him fingered a cop in under ten seconds. Reed doesn’t transfer to greasy jeans and T-shirts well. Mercer’s too ethnic for this group. I can’t pull Skyralov from his case. The new guy isn’t ready yet.”
Frowning, Ace reached for his coffee. “You’re friends with her. You can make her see the logic of going home.”
“And wait for someone else to care to look for her sister?” Falconer’s quip had an undertone of amusement. “We all know how well that argument worked with you.”
Ace swore silently. The only way he’d agreed to take the case was if he could have Bianca close by and safe. He understood what drove Rory. He even found her drive commendable. What he couldn’t take was the risk she posed.
“It’s not like I’m asking for a lifetime commitment here,” Falconer said.
Ace’s gaze snapped up. “A day or a lifetime, she’s still a liability.”
Falconer’s eyes narrowed and he studied him much too closely. “Yeah, looking out for a woman who can take care of herself, I can see how that’s something new for you.”
“You don’t get it.” Ace leaned forward and drilled a finger into the table. “Your wife, she’s got class. She knows when you need her around. She knows when to make herself scarce.”
“Liv is one terrific hostess.” Falconer’s smile bore an amused twist.
“Rory, she—”
“Knows what she wants and goes after it.”
Ace glared at Falconer. The man had no clue. And he was running this outfit? No wonder they were taking so long to uncover the information they needed to crack the case.
Elbows on the table, Falconer tented his hands and tapped his fingers against his lips. “You’re not sleeping with her, are you?”
His pulse spiked. Heat pooled too low for comfort. He choked on his coffee. “No! Are you crazy? She’s not my type.”
“Um,” Falconer said.
“It’s not like that at all.”
Falconer continued to stare.
“You’ve got it all wrong.”
“That’s what I thought.” Falconer called for the check. As he did, his features froze. “My advice—”
The diner’s front door burst open and raucous laughter spilled into the dining room.
“Sons,” Falconer said. “Four of them. Take the rear exit. I’ll cover you.”
Falconer rose. Using his boss’s wide back as cover, Ace slipped down the aisleway toward the rest rooms. The waitress plowed through the kitchen door with a tray. Before the door swung shut all the way, Ace slid through. He waved at the surprised cook and strode out the back door.
It was already happening, he thought, as he rolled his Indian down the road before starting it. Rory was making him lose his edge.
Chapter Eight
“You ready?” Ace asked Rory when she opened the door to Felicia’s apartment. The bruise on his cheekbone looked better, Rory noted, not as florid as last night.
His gaze slid down her body in a long, sensual skate that sent a warm shiver goosing down her spine. He was doing it on purpose. To make her feel out of her element. If he thought she was that soft, he was wrong. Still, it made her wish for her desk at the library and her computer and the wide net of information the new 24/7 Reference System would bring her without having to pretend she was someone she wasn’t.
“As I’ll ever be.” She slipped on Felicia’s leather jacket, then pulled the door shut behind her and skipped down the stairs ahead of him. Dark clouds masked the moon and stars. The promise of rain perfumed the night breeze and made the leather of her borrowed jacket feel cold against her skin.
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Ace handed her a helmet—black with cream-colored trim to match his motorcycle. “You’ll need this.”
He wasn’t expecting her to ride with him, was he?
She lifted her keychain and jiggled the keys. “I’ll drive myself.” She liked the idea of having a way out if she needed it.
He pushed the helmet into her hands. “You’ll ride with me.”
“I don’t like motorcycles.” They terrified her. The noise, the smell, the exposure. She had never had any need for speed. Danger was Felicia’s thing, not hers.
